by C. P. James
“His liver and kidneys shut down first, then his lungs filled with blood. It all happened at once. Any family history of disease?”
“Nothing like this. In fact … he was the first child in the world to receive the Cure.”
Baz gave her a moment to understand that the man in her hospital was that Perfecto Montes, the one she’d read about in medical school.
“I see. Well, again, we don’t know much right now. The cruise line is aware of the situation, but they’ve been advised that a pathogen probably wasn’t responsible. I was told that no other passengers have taken ill. Still, we’re taking every precaution. The CDC is here.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“Of course.”
He wasn’t as confident as Dr. Velasquez about a pathogen. What she described was eerily similar to Ebola. He wondered about an engineered virus or a new strain as they exited an elevator on the 5th floor. Almost immediately, he recognized Dr. Cassidy “Dee” Harding, a senior director at the CDC he knew well. Her presence spoke volumes.
“Dee.”
“Baz, I'm so sorry,” she said, her voice heavy.
They embraced warmly.
“Walk with me.”
He followed her down a hallway toward a set of double doors.
“His room is BSL-2 until we know what we’re dealing with. You can see him, but you’re going to have to suit up.”
“BSL-2? Dr. Velasquez seemed pretty sure it wasn’t a bug.”
“I don’t think it is. But until we’re 100 percent certain, we're being safe.”
“Where’s Sophie?”
“The fiancé? We took her to a hotel and gave her some Ambien. She’s been through the ringer.”
A few minutes later, they entered the quarantine area. Baz suited up and followed Dee into the safety zone.
A couple lab workers huddled over Perfecto, taking additional samples from his arm. His skin was Kabuki white. Thin rivulets of blood were dried and black around his nose, eyes and ears. Only the small mole under his left eye betrayed that it was him, a vigorous young man who had just turned 25 a couple weeks back. The lab workers turned and stared at Baz like he shouldn’t be there, but Dee explained who he was. They nodded grimly and put their samples in a box, then filed back out. Perfecto’s eyes were pure red and staring at the ceiling.
His hands and elbows were bruised and scratched. He assumed there were others under his gown somewhere. He had convulsed or seized, probably on the ship, and went unconscious. The final moment may have come quickly, but by the looks of it, his last moments were horrifying.
Baz fell to his knees and wept.
17
Geller’s phone rang, interrupting his dictation. He saw it was Baz.
“Answer,” he said, and the device picked up. “Hey, Lindh is looking you. Where the hell are you?”
There was a long pause.
“He’s dead,” Baz said, his voice hoarse and tired. “My boy is dead.”
Geller picked up the phone.
“What?! My God, Baz, are you— What happened?”
Baz explained as much as he could bear—the cruise, the presumed stomach bug, the CDC, and all his systems turning to mush while everyone watched, helpless. Dee had been right; there was no pathogen.
Geller’s mind raced. If it wasn’t a bug, the list of possibilities was awfully short. He had a theory, but he couldn’t share it. Not yet.
“I’m having his body sent back to the States right away,” Baz said. “I need you to find out what happened to him, Brent. Please.”
He remembered Perfecto as a little boy, coming to GIG with Baz sometimes to hang out at the back of the lab. Lucia stayed at home, so Perfecto liked to get out sometimes to be close to his dad. Baz even had a kid-size lab coat made with “Dr. Montes” embroidered on it, along with the GIG logo. It seemed fitting that the first member of the so-called Perfect Generation was a fixture there. Everyone loved him.
Perfecto remained interested in science, and was about to start his career as an engineer. He came to treat Lyle Merriweather as sort of a great uncle, and became inspired by all the amazing projects the Foundation was supporting. He dreamt of eliminating the need for petrochemicals in building and packaging materials, and was about to apply for his first patent. Now, Geller was being asked to cut him open.
Geller said, “Everything stops until we know. I promise you that.”
The CDC helped arrange for the immediate return of Perfecto’s body, still under strict quarantine protocols, and Baz accompanied him on the plane. Geller took the GIG jet to Atlanta and was waiting at the CDC when the van arrived. Baz had gone home to Lucia, a reunion that Geller was glad to miss. No pathogen could have done the kind of damage Baz described, and not just because there were no other cases. He felt it in his gut, an instinct he had long since come to trust.
A Dr. Singh, whom he didn’t know, assisted with the autopsy. Geller could tell he didn’t appreciate playing assistant, but that wasn’t his problem. He advised Singh there was no need to wear a positive-pressure suit, but he did anyway.
Once they got Perfecto uncovered, Geller couldn't believe his eyes. His soft tissue and muscles, which should long since have hardened with rigor, were gelatinous and soft. They pooled beneath his bones in such a way that the entire front of his skeleton was plainly visible through his skin, which looked thin and moist, as though the fat layer beneath had begun to seep through. It was customary to team lift a body from the gurney to the examining table, but their hands slid into Perfecto’s skin like a cake. Singh looked up at him in horror.
“Guess we’re doing this right here,” Geller said, taking up the scalpel.
The autopsy revealed little that a trained eye couldn’t see by simply glancing at the body. Perfecto’s systems hadn’t just failed—they were almost completely dissolved. Dr. Singh’s theory was a severe autoimmune disorder, which Geller agreed was a logical guess, but it didn’t fit. Nothing worked this fast. Whatever happened was at a microcellular level, and no lab in the world was better equipped for it than GIG. It took serious persuasion and a call to the director of the CDC to let him take tissue and blood samples, which they refused to send until their own analysis proved there was definitely no pathogen.
It took the better part of a week to receive them, during which Geller didn’t see Baz at all. He wondered whether he would even want to see his old friend after he knew something conclusive about Perfecto, or if it would be better for Baz to decide he’d rather not know.
With Baz’s future in question, Geller needed someone to be his right hand. Erik Heiser, the bright young student he’d met at Laird, had proven himself up to the task. They’d hired him immediately after he finished his PhD at Johns Hopkins, and he’d been there ever since. Geller called him on his way across town and asked him to prep the lab for some tests. Being a Saturday, Erik was at home with his wife, Lucy, and 2-year-old son Lars. He said he’d come in right away.
GIG was fairly deserted on weekends, save for the occasional lab tech or project lead who was either catching up or trying to get ahead of schedule. On this occasion, the labs were completely empty. Geller found Erik in Lab B (microbiology), powering everything on.
“Nope—gen lab,” Geller said.
“I thought we were looking for COD.”
“We are.”
The GIG genetics lab was the most advanced of its kind in the world. Though the mysteries of the human genome were still being unearthed, much of what we knew was the result of work done there.
By the time Erik came in, Geller was already dividing out blood samples for the centrifuge and labeling them. Erik took the tissue samples—heart, lung, liver, kidney, brain—and prepped them for microdissection. They worked in silence. The fact that they were there meant Geller suspected a genetic trigger in Perfecto’s death. If there was such a trigger, it might be related to the Cure or it might not. Either scenario was disconcerting, but only one had implications for his young son.
&nb
sp; They worked through the night. Most of the tissue was unusable, its cells and genetic material too damaged to analyze. They had to compare the genetic structure of those samples to a sequence from one of Perfecto’s original blood and tissue samples, taken as a matter of course with Cure recipients, to know if Geller’s theory was correct. Erik returned from a bathroom break to find Geller leaning forward in his chair with his head in his hands.
“What is it?”
Geller didn’t respond. Erik got a closer look at the computer screen nearby and instantly understood. Flashing red lines on the display indicated a disparity between the two samples—two, in fact. Two of the genes on Perfecto’s chromosomal DNA had switched places. Under normal circumstances that could lead to anything from an increased risk of birth defects in offspring to cancer. In this case, it led to something more insidious.
The Cure’s complexity was almost impossible to fathom. There were millions of permutations and scenarios that had to be worked out, replacing troublesome genes with flawless ones, defective or not, should only have been beneficial. To that point, millions of genetically flawless babies had borne out that assumption. But despite all their advances and innovations, there was still plenty that even GIG didn’t understand about the human genetic code. It didn’t always follow its own rules. In other words, shit happened.
“It’s programmed cell death,” Geller said as he sat up. “Respiratory system, digestive, the brain stem …”
“Whoa, now slow down. Which genes are we looking at here?”
“It doesn’t matter, Erik,” Geller hissed. “The point is, now they manufacture an enzyme or a protein that destroys the cell wall, and in such quantities that it would be next to impossible to— It might as well be fucking acid.”
“But what made them switch positions?”
“Something I didn’t … I don’t know—an enzyme, a bad pair, a mutation—it seems random. Something tied to physical maturity, maybe.”
“It’s one patient. We’ll figure something out before it happens again. There’s time. Geller, this is my son we’re talking about.”
“I know,” Geller whispered. “Believe me, I know.”
18
There was no sleep for Geller. Erik hit a wall after about 40 straight hours of running protein simulations and went home, vowing to return after a solid night’s rest, but Geller kept going. His brain was activated, and there was no deactivating it. Not now.
He didn’t know why two of the replaced genes switched positions, or why it had the effect it did, but he’d been right when he told Erik it didn’t matter. What mattered now was the question of whether anything could be done.
The human body could spontaneously dismantle a tumor that had resisted all other treatments, or allow the tiniest mole to become a death sentence. It might live through unspeakable trauma but be undone by an infected cut. This nether region between science and “magic” is where Geller liked to operate. Math and chemistry were too black and white for him. What he’d made in the Cure was something like magic, so it was as though he’d been the sole architect of an elaborate illusion, only to learn that it didn’t work as intended. Nature, it seemed, also had a trick up its sleeve.
Earlier in the week he received a text from Dr. Lindh about Merriweather, who had suffered a minor heart attack. He needed surgery and was recovering from a triple bypass, but it was still touch and go. He said:
Pretty tied up right now. I’ll get back to you.
And Lindh said:
He may not have long.
He checked his watch. It was 10:37 a.m. He could pack a bag and be at GIG’s own landing strip by 11:30, and in Seattle a couple hours later. He’d be back well before sunrise the next day. On one hand, he didn’t want to stop working, but on the other hand it was Lyle. Even Geller couldn’t deny his debt to the man. He had to go.
The jet was in the air by 12:15. He poured himself a scotch and closed his eyes.
Turbulence jolted him awake just outside the city.
“Jesus fuck!” he reflexively said.
“Apologies, Dr. Geller,” said the captain over the speaker. “That was bumpier than expected.”
Fortunately his scotch was long since drained and the glass picked up by the attendant. A few minutes later they touched down, and a waiting limo whisked him away.
Traffic was horrid, and it was mid afternoon by the time he stepped out in front of St. Ignatius Medical Center. He hated hospitals, even when he was doing his short residency. To him, they were places of bureaucracy, wastefulness and death. He inquired about Lyle at the front desk and was instructed to go to the 14th floor.
To his surprise, the door to Merriweather’s private room was open. Seated next to each other in the corner were his two sons, Avery and Mason, Avery’s disappointingly plain wife, Tina (or was it Trina?) and Lindh, who appeared to be on a call. None looked particularly happy to see him. Mason smirked and stuck his open hand in front of Avery, who rolled his eyes and slapped a $20 into it.
“Didn’t figure you’d show,” Avery said. “Neither did Dad.”
Lindh nodded at Geller, then brushed past him into the hall. Geller moved further into the room so he could see past the partition half-pulled around Lyle’s bed. He was sitting up, but sedated and on oxygen.
“You came. The boys had a bet. Give us a few minutes?” he croaked through the mask.
His sons looked at each other and shrugged, then Avery shook his wife awake. She did a small double-take at Geller, stretched, and followed them out the door.
“How you feeling?” Geller asked.
“Weak. Tired. Useless. All of the above.”
“What happened? Lindh is being cagey.”
“Ticker’s not working at capacity. I think it’s gone union.”
Lyle chuckled at his own joke but it morphed almost instantly into a painful cough. Geller reflexively handed him water. As Lyle drank, Geller considered the possibilities. Most likely, his bypass was accompanied by blood thinners and statins, so the heart wasn’t working as hard. That was good, but some people couldn’t keep the cardiac muscle strong enough. If that was the case he might yo-yo months or years. Or, his heart might just say fuck it and check out. He could have a conversation with the cardiologist, but his speciality was internal medicine.
“I need to stop being hilarious.”
“Lindh said you wanted to see me?”
“I heard about Baz’s boy.”
“How?”
“My brother’s high up at the CDC. I told you that once, I think.”
“Oh.”
“Do we know what happened?”
Geller hadn’t anticipated the question. Technically he didn’t know what happened yet, though he knew more than anyone. Still, he thought it best to avoid causing Lyle additional stress.
“Erik’s running tests as we speak.”
Lyle looked hard at him, searching for a lie. Geller’s face betrayed nothing.
“Could it be related to the Cure?”
The worry in his voice was unmistakable.
“It’s too early to say,” Geller said.
“What’s your gut say?”
He hated lying to the man, but he had to.
“That it’s something else.”
He visibly relaxed.
“Well, call me as soon as you know anything. Or Lindh.”
“Of course,” Geller said.
They talked shop for a while, about GIG and various operational issues. Geller told him about the bad turbulence, and Lyle joked that Geller should get his pilot’s license like a real man. There wasn’t much left to say after that.
“I’m going to get back and see what Erik found out. We’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Sure.”
Three days later, just a few hours before he was going to be released from the hospital, Lyle’s heart decided it had had enough. Avery and his wife had left, and Mason returned from the men’s room to find his father encircled by frenzied doctors and nurses.
They tried for several minutes to shock his heart, but Mason knew it wouldn’t work. If his dad was reunited with his mother, he was never coming back.
19
Between the long hours in the lab and the flight, Geller was strangely tired. He wanted to fly straight back but didn’t feel like it yet, so he got a hotel downtown, took a desperately needed shower, and collapsed into bed. It was dark when he woke, but he felt refreshed and hungry. He dressed and went down to the lobby, where he asked the concierge to recommend a lively spot for dinner, drinks and companionship, proffering a $50 to show he didn’t mean some hipster place. The concierge wrote “Carter’s” on a piece of paper and indicated Geller should map the six-block walk.
“This is what you’re looking for,” he said.
“Thanks,” Geller said.
The concierge made a good call. Carter’s was understated, dark, and oozed class. He enjoyed a sumptuous salmon dish, so fresh he’d have sworn it was thrown from the boat straight onto the grill. He paid his check and made his way to the bar, which by then was teeming with beautiful twenty- and thirty-somethings. A comely young woman with an elaborate floral tattoo on her calf delivered a rusty nail, up, and he handed her his card to open a tab.
Geller rarely socialized, but found the situation intoxicating. Surrounding him were the very people he had endeavored not to become—young business professionals, for whom being beautiful and rich was all that mattered. He was their age, basically, but felt so much older. So much more material. But they were laughing and drinking and being young, and he was Geller.
“Holy shit, you’re that guy,” said a man, perhaps 30, accompanied by a stunning blonde with flawless skin. A flimsy blouse fell across her tits like a theater curtain. She had that look.
“Am I now?” Geller said.
“Yeah, you’re that scientist. I saw a clip of you on Kira Broyles.”
“Brent Geller,” he said, extending his hand.
“Ha! That’s right,” he said. “Holy shit. I’m Royce.”
